


A Christmas We Deserve

by ghostlygreeneyedgirl



Category: Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:48:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28253412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostlygreeneyedgirl/pseuds/ghostlygreeneyedgirl
Summary: With snow falling outside and a fire roaring, Christine celebrates her first Christmas with the mysterious owner of Phantasma.In Universe 1 shot to What Little We Deserve.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	A Christmas We Deserve

**Author's Note:**

> Most assuredly, someone will ask: dear author, but when does this one-shot take place in the story? And I honestly have no good answer for you. Listen, Erik wanted a merry Christmas and I was very much inclined to give him one. I hope you enjoy this fluffy fluff ball even though its G rated. Lord knows it's brought a smile to my face several times this holiday season. We'll be back to regularly-scheduled updates next week.
> 
> Landed here and not sure what our context is? Please check out the full LND's fic: What Little We Deserve.

There were ten little orphans that belonged to Phantasma. Of those, four were considered very young, though they were very grown up in their own way. All the other children of the small school had found friends and families for their own holiday cheer. Truly orphans no more. And this was right and what the master of Phantasma wished for them.

Yet the four still alone were a little unique. Different. Still very young, they'd yet to master some of the finer social skills of their peers, but they were passionate about things and delighted in their fervor. Mr. Y, seeing himself in their strangeness, indulged them. There would be years ahead where the world would chide them for the things they loved. He refused to allow it to happen in his domain.

Now, these four little children still believed in Père Noël and delighted in the promise of Christmas gifts from the wise, magical spirit.

It enchanted Christine to discover that her own dear Phantom – a man she thought rather devoid of sweet things – assured these children a proper Christmas in his own home, inviting them over for the evening's celebrations. After all, Noël can only easily visit those with a true fireplace.

The drifts of snow had been dangerously high. Too high, in fact, to travel the few miles from Phantasma to the little Lutheran church they attended. And so, with a fire roaring and a pine tree freshly cut, the children, Christine, Fleck, and Erik began their evening with the Christmas story and a glass of warm milk.

Christine took her place on the sofa by the fire, delighting in the children's excitement for the old bible story. And yet the greatest sight she'd ever seen was Erik and the smile the stole across his face as he began his telling.

He punctuated the story with Christmas Carols and bid the company to join him in their melody. As ever, his hands graced the piano keys with the ease of a master, enchanting and enhancing the story in turn.

"Does he do this every year?" She whispered to Fleck beside her. The small woman took a long swig of her sweetened drink before answering.

"Every year. These children have seemed to seep into his heart a bit, strange as they all are."

He bid Sam and Elijah to be the drummer boys and seek the star outside the window. He asked Charlotte and Sarah to sing _Away in the Manger_. The group joined in to sing _Joy to the World_ , and Erik himself sang the most moving version of _Silent Night_ she had ever heard.

Christine looked about the room: fresh smelling garland hung from the mantel, candlelight danced in every corner, warm cookies sat soft and sweet by the fire. How warm and welcoming and wonderful this Christmas was. So unlike her last. So much more than she could have ever dreamed.

Her Erik had demanded a new life for himself in the wilds of America and crafted a family with who he could be himself. There was no madness in his eyes, no shadows of the past. Amongst these dear children who accepted and respected him, he flourished with confidence.

"Do you think Miss Daaé will sing a song for us?" he asked the children. Their chorus of yeses brought a smile to her face.

"Which song do you wish me to sing?"

"Your favorite, of course." She rose to join him by the piano.

"And you know my favorite Christmas song, Mr. Y?" His fingers danced along the keys and she heard the hint of a melody.

Of course he knew her favorite song.

Of course he would play the song her father would sing to her on Christmas Eve.

If she listened hard enough, she could still hear her father's voice begin the chorus. Erik saw her eyes, glassy with unshed tears, and began for her:

_Adeste fideles_

_Laeti triumphantes,_

_Venite, venite in Bethlehem_

A hush filled the room as Erik's warm voice wove magic into the very air. Christine rested her hand on his shoulder and took the rest of the verse from him. They sang the second stanza together in English, their voices woven together and unbreakable. If only this could be what every Christmas was. _Could it?_

Christine could not help herself. At the close of the refrain, she bent her head and laid a soft kiss on Erik's unmasked cheek. "Thank you," she whispered in his ear.

A knock came at the door. For a moment, Erik did not hear it, so lost in the aching sweetness of Christine by his side. At the second knock, he roused. "Who could that be?" he asked the children. "Sam. Get the door?" He winked at the boy and Christine shook her head. The children rushed and followed.

What came next could only be described as sheer delight. The children shrieked and cheered. Père Noël had come!

Poor little Charlotte screamed and ran into Christine's arms, terrified of Herbert dressed in a bright red coat and white horsehair beard. "It's alright, _mon poulet_ , it's Santa." She whispered with the child on her hip.

Herbert's eyes were bright and shining, his skin laced with a light sheen of sweat. Yet the children didn't care, and if they recognized him, they didn't say.

.

The fire danced low in the grate by the time the adults left for the evening. Christine would stay at Erik's for the night. He helped the children lay out their beds in the living room, promising one final story.

Charlotte had long fallen asleep in Christine's arms and she found she had no desire to release the sweet little girl to bed. Sam flopped beside her on the sofa, resting his head on her shoulder.

Elijah and Sarah burrowed close to Erik's side, yawning wide as he began, "T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the house…"

By the end of the poem, all the children were sleeping, and Erik basked in Christine's attention alone.

"I never realized you loved Christmas so much."

"I never really had one as a child. It's important, for children. To have Christmas."

"Why?"

"It teaches them that there is always magic in the world. They won't all be as lucky as you and I have been."

"We've been lucky?"

"To command magic, yes. In that regard, God has been kind to us." The command music. Her angelic Phantom would call that magic. She wanted to tell him: from her view, God had also given him a family, but she feared that would ruin the perfection of their evening.

"What did you get them," she whispered, "as presents?"

A wicked smile filled his features, and he motioned his head for her to follow him. They laid the children down before the fire, snuggled deeply into well-worn quilts, and slunk up the stairs to the attic.

"I have to hide their presents. Sam always goes in search."

"I only remember ever getting an orange and a new pair of socks. Surely he's not looking for those."

"They will get those too. And new mittens and coats. I make sure those gifts go to all the children at the school. But Elijah wanted books. Adventure stories. Sarah wanted a violin. She'll forget about it once she realizes lessons are long. Charlotte wanted a doll with red hair."

"What did Sam want?"

"Something I can't give him yet. Instead I made him this." Christine took the large book of maps from Erik's hands, tied neatly with a velvet red ribbon. She carefully removed the bow and opened the book.

It was special. The normal images of countries and cities, oceans and deserts were present, but overlaid on all of them were drawings of places Erik had been. Beautiful, intricate pen sketches that brought life to the flat lines of rivers and roads.

She openly scanned the book until she found Paris. Across the top he'd drawn the city from the roof of the Populaire, expansive and beautiful. And down below he'd crafted a small street off the center of the city. She remembered it, a place where she'd walk for fresh fruit in winter. The little store clerk Elan was even poking out from the store front.

"Erik, this is breathtaking." She rewrapped the bow he'd tied around the book, ensuring it looked like a present for morning. He returned before her, his hands behind his back. "Did you draw these places from memory?"

He'd not heard her question. He was too focused on his next words: "I didn't know what to get you – and then I remembered. When you had just arrived at the Opera you had a little music box. It played a strange tune."

Astonished he knew and had remembered the little box no bigger than a plum, she absently answered, "It was my father's melody. A duke had had it made for his wife, but she'd hated the thing. I loved it. It was the only way I heard my father's music."

"And one day, another dancer smashed it down the stairs. You cried in the library for hours trying to put in back together."

Christine's fingers trembled before her. "Yes. I did."

Her Phantom took his hands from behind his back and in them sat the little music box, gilded in gold and shimmering with blue glass. He gently placed the gift in Christine's own hands. "Fixing the box was easy. It's taken years to make sure the melody was right."

His fingers gently lifted the lid and Gustave Daaé's simple melody lifted into the air. Christine could not help her smile, nor the tears that streamed down her face. "I'd only heard it a few times," Erik whispered. Allowing the melody to play once more, she carefully set the music box on top of Sam's book of maps. "Please tell me your tears are happy ones."

Her throat worked. She couldn't form words. Instead she took his head in her hands and pulled him down her to lips. Christine pressed into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and smiling against his lips. She lingered there, trailing sweet kisses along the corner of his mouth. "Thank you."

In answer, Erik kissed her again. He tasted of cinnamon and clove. He was warm. His body held none of the tension it normally did. Christine was beguiled by his confidence when he pulled her closer and her skin grew hungry for his touch.

But it was Christmas and there were children downstairs. She pressed her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat in the silent night, her father's melody playing softly in the shadows.

"I have no gift for you Erik. I'm sorry. No gifts for the children either."

"Believe me, my dear, you have given me a gift without price." At her quizzical look, he clarified, "You've given me my first real Christmas. For the rest of my life, there will be few memories I cherish more."

Love shone in his golden, mismatched eyes and it took Christine's breath from her lungs. "Now come. I know exactly what gift you can give the children tomorrow morning."

"What?"

"Warm croissant and dipping chocolate."

She smiled. It was a perfect idea. Who needed sleep on Christmas? "And marzipan. Can we make them marzipan?"

Erik quickly kissed her lips once more, then gathered up the gifts in his hands, nodding at Christine to take her music box and Sam's book.

"Of course. That is a French Christmas, is it not?"

In the moonlight, fresh snow began to fall. It danced outside the windows as though each flake was a winter fairy, frolicking in delight.

.

In the morning, the children would wake to find Mr. Y and Miss Daaé asleep together on the chez, their heads resting against each other, their hands intertwined. Unwilling to wake their loving adults, they ventured to the kitchen, the smell of warm bread and sweetness calling.

Before them lay a feast of fresh French croissant and chocolate and tens of little marzipan mice. The two young ones looked to Sam, very old and wise at the age of nine. And at his nod they devoured the sweet breakfast.

Their giggles woke their very tired adults. Christine smiled and brought Erik's hand to her lips. It was Erik who broke the silence. "Thank Miss Daaé for her gift to you," he spoke toward the other room.

The children cheered in unison, laughter and excitement filling their voices, "Thank you, Christine!"

Her smile pulled wide against the back of Erik's hand. She kissed it again, tightening her fingers around his own, "Joyeux Noël, Erik."


End file.
